


to seize and devour

by Ias



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Sex, Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, Post-Seine, Sexual Inexperience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21708670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: For so long he has felt it: this hunter’s instinct, this urge to descend and grasp and bind and devour, belonging more to hawk or hound than man.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 3
Kudos: 98





	to seize and devour

For so long he has felt it: this hunter’s instinct, this urge to descend and grasp and bind and devour, belonging more to hawk or hound than man. This brainless demand of his body urging  _ seize, fight, take,  _ that has him clutching and snarling and pressing down as he spends over Valjean’s stomach, his hands digging bruises into his partner’s shoulders as if to catch him beyond all hope of escape. 

Valjean kisses him, afterward; cleans them both up with hands far more careful than Javert deserves or even wants. He cannot bear it, this tenderness. It would be so much easier if Valjean were to turn that grotesque strength against him, were to give him the same callous hard use that he cannot seem to stem in himself. 

But of course, if Valjean was ever that kind of man, he is no longer. And so he tolerates Javert’s tense, harsh attentions patiently, and shows him nothing but kindness in return. 

Javert is not built for kindness. 

* * *

“Do you like it like this?”

Javert asks it in the aftermath, with the stickiness of sweat and other emissions still lingering on their skin, for it seems neither of them can yet bear to part. As always, it was a rough and awkward coupling. Valjean’s face is pressed to Javert’s collarbone, his breathing even and relaxed; at the question he pulls back to look into Javert’s face, a fond smile on his face. 

“I believed it obvious that I enjoyed myself, Javert,” he says, a fact which is impossible to dispute with the evidence of his completion not yet wiped from their skin. And Valjean has never once failed to reach that end; Javert has at least not failed to pass that absolute lowest of hurdles. 

“That is not what I asked,” Javert replies, unwavering, and at that Valjean’s smile dims. The next breath Javert draws is not as steady as he would like. “I know that I am—not proficient,” he says, and Valjean’s expression crumples farther. “Is there some way I could better…?”

The kiss Valjean presses to his down-turned lips offers forgiveness, but not an answer. 

* * *

It does not feel good, this desire. It is a gnawing beneath his skin, something which must be swatted before it can draw blood. 

Javert does not want to want. It was easier when his body was a thing of metal and stone, whose urges troubled him only occasionally and were easily enough assuaged. Now he has awakened to desire like a young man might—and it courses through as a fever which refuses to break, which grows hungrier the more it is fed. He ought to have quarantined himself, allowed it to burn him to ask; instead he has passed it to Valjean, and now they tremble and sweat in its grip together.

There is no true relief, no satisfaction in what he and Valjean do to calm their aching flesh. Perhaps if they were younger men, or if either of them knew the manner of such things—but they are old fools, and Javert can only grope at Valjean as desperately as a drowning man flailing at the nearest thing on the surface. 

It is a mean, tight pleasure Javert ekes out, with his hand mercilessly wringing their two cocks between them and his jaw set in a gargoyle’s snarl. He cannot relax; can do nothing but seize and rut, desperate, sharp, over so quickly there is scarcely time to grow breathless. Valjean smiles at him, dazed; but Javert no longer believes he is imagining the distant, marshy softness of disappointment in his gaze, as if he wants something he did not get and lacks the words to ask for. 

* * *

It comes over him as it always does: he watches Valjean from the doorway as the man kneels before the bed they share, his hands clasped in prayer. The stretch of his white shirt between broad shoulder blades. The gentle slope of arms which could crush Javert like a twig. The touch of white curls at the nape of that reverently bowed neck. 

For Valjean to be here, within his grasp, and yet not yet seized; the old excitement courses through him, sets him trembling against the wooden frame where he leans. His flesh stirs. So does his shame. But the latter quickly overwhelms the former, for the flesh will have its due of him. His nostrils flare; his breath comes shorter. Unbeknownst to him his hands tighten where they are settled over his own arms, as if already gripping the man before him in proxy. 

He is no longer confused or misguided on the nature of his urges. Before, he thought his instincts toward Valjean (for it is only and ever Valjean who has awakened this in him, and he takes some sparse relief in that) were the well-honed mannerisms of a good policeman. He sees them now for what they are: bestial. Inhuman. The savage impulses of a creature who was never fit for society, who wishes only to seize that which is not his and devour it as greedily as a stolen loaf of bread. 

These are the base urges he ought to be repressing, all the more obscene that Valjean is communing with God while Javert lets the devil take him. And yet slowly, so as not to make even a rustle of clothing, he lowers one hand and palms himself, not bothering to unfasten his clothing, as he watches Valjean rapt in pious stillness. Javert is no less ardent in his devotions. He is quiet, slow, the cautious motions of a cat creeping up upon a mouse in the brush. 

After a while, Valjean raises his head, staring blankly over the expanse of blankets Javert pulled drum-taut over their bed that morning. But whatever his reflections, they are interrupted; for surely he hears some minute shifting from behind, and instinct makes his shoulders go tense; he turns slowly, and Javert’s blood sings as he does, the moment when prey scents the predator at last. With his exuberance rises his humiliation; for Valjean to witness him in such a state of wretched degradation! And yet Javert wants, and having given in to that wanting once, he has lost the trick of denying himself. 

He can barely imagine what Valjean sees upon turning. He does not wish to think of himself this way: flushed, slumped, his hand stilled over the bulge of his vexation. Whatever Valjean sees causes a ripple of shock to move over his face, his mouth falling open, his hand clenching on the bedpost. And yet from across the room Javert can see his eyes darken. Can see the shuddering breath which passes that open mouth. And here is the final triumph: his quarry knows he is caught. 

Javert releases himself and crosses the threshold, steps silently on stockinged feet across the floor, feels the hunter within him rise and thrill and bare its teeth as he advances on Valjean below him, so vulnerable and exposed, his hair so soft. Valjean stares up at him from his place on the floor, a faint smile kindling in his eyes.

“Would you like to join me in prayer?” he says, with only a faint tremor in his voice. For a moment that gives Javert pause—but it is of want, not fear. 

“You appear to be finished.” Javert reaches for him with the hand with which he had pressed himself, still warm from the heat of his flesh. He touches the roughness of a day’s stubble on Valjean’s cheeks; a moment later it is softness as Valjean turns to kiss his palm. And then, without hesitation, he leans forward to press a similar kiss to the bulge in Javert’s trousers.

The noise which escapes Javert’s lips is worse than undignified. For a brief moment he is impaled on the spear-point of that sensation, all thoughts of the hunt banished from his mind. He is helpless beneath the delicate press of Valjean’s lips, the hot breath on his most intimate of places.

“No. No.” He paws at Valjean’s shoulders, his knees going spongy and slack. Valjean pulls back, looking up at him in surprise. “Not like that,” Javert says hoarsely, though he is not sure why. Perhaps because it still seems wrong, to permit Valjean the sort of degradation Javert himself lowers himself to so frequently; perhaps because it feels too good, to be an object beneath Valjean’s ministrations. 

“On your feet,” Javert says, a little gruffer than intended, and helps Valjean clamber up—a flicker of guilt at the twinge of discomfort in Valjean’s eyes as he takes his weight off his knees. Valjean would have continued to bear that pain without hesitation for him, which is far more than Javert deserves. He grips the back of Valjean’s head, fingers sliding into the hair; he can feel the delicate curve of skull beneath his fingertips, the tight grip of his hand. With his other he seizes Valjean’s collar, and pulls him into a kiss which is no more or less fumbling than their usual fare. 

This is better. This is correct. He holds Valjean still as they kiss, a clash of teeth and chins and noses, and by the time they are in the bed and Javert is rutting mindlessly against the hardness in Valjean’s trousers it is all set back to right: his face hidden in the crook of Valjean’s neck as he noses aside the open collar of his shirt, and his hands digging into his shoulders so tightly neither of them could ever get away. 

* * *

It seems they are doomed to ever more reenact this farce: of the policeman and the convict, the captor and the caught, for Javert does not not know how else to do this; has no other script to follow. In some ways he has adapted to this strange new era of his life—not in this.

* * *

It is not so unusual that Javert cannot settle himself, and yet tonight something changes. He cannot find his rhythm, cannot still the wandering clasp of his hands. He strains and grunts and bows his head in embarrassment, Valjean pliant and panting beneath him—until he is not. 

Valjean’s hands, seizing his hips. He tries to cant them forward, to scrape up against more of that urgent friction—and yet he cannot. Cannot budge even an inch, forward or backward, in the iron hold of Valjean’s grip. Javert’s breath catches in his throat; he is hard and trembling and obscene between them, and yet can do nothing which Valjean himself does not allow. 

Valjean stares into his face, watching with a care and attention which belies his own condition of need. And then slowly Javert is moved; is shifted to the side and then down, turned from his position above them and then lowered onto his back, and he squirms just to test the grip on him but it is unyielding, he has no choice but to go. Then Valjean is over him, gentle yet firm hands holding him down, eyes watching as Javert’s mouth falls open and his chest shudders with every breath, watching as Javert comes with a whimper before Valjean can even bring their bodies together, spilling over his own stomach beneath Valjean’s swiftly astonished gaze.

They do not speak of it, afterward. But something does change.

* * *

A few days after that, Valjean and Javert are sitting down to their usual evening repast. This is the way it often begins; a single glance which lingers too long can be enough to trigger an evening of gasps and gritted teeth and rumpled, sweat-damped bedsheets. Tonight it is Valjean’s eyes which slide over him like oil poured at the crown of his head, a creeping presence he can feel even beneath his clothes. He says and does nothing differently, as is also their custom. But he feels Valjean’s eyes on him throughout, and there is an unfamiliar weight and heft to them, a thoughtful consideration which Javert is unaccustomed to. 

He finishes his meal first. That too is unusual. Valjean is picking at his food, spending more time looking and less eating. Under different circumstances Javert would hassle him for that, but not tonight. Tonight he stands, mumbling something about turning in early; tonight he hears the scrape of Valjean’s chair as he steps into the hall, and knows the other man is following. 

He can hear Valjean padding on his heels down the hall. Soft. At a far enough distance that Javert could dart away, if he wished. He does not. Neither does he turn. He simply walks down the hall as he has done a hundred times, only now every casual gesture is manufactured, the very motion of his gait a thing which must be consciously reproduced. A prickle travels up and down his back, settling between his shoulderblades like the raised hackles of a dog but in apprehension rather than aggression. It is… not unpleasant. 

He hesitates for a moment with his hand on the doorknob, and hears that Valjean’s footsteps have ceased as well. Again, that thrill of anticipation, so different from the one he knows and yet also so similar. All at once he realizes it: he is the one being hunted now, and there is a part of him which is enjoying it. 

He steps into the room, disconcerted, short of breath. Nervousness sends his hands to fluttering idly about his person, adjusting his cravat and then shakily tearing it free. That motion, in the end, decides the course of the rest. He begins undressing with stiff motions, aware of each individual action and how unnatural they feel. Aware even more keenly when Valjean arrives in the doorway, soundless, and yet his presence is like the hot breaths of a hunter on the back of Javert’s neck. As Javert awkwardly peels off his waistcoat, he hears Valjean step into the room. As he untucks his shirt tails from his trousers, the click of the door being locked. 

There is a ragged panting in the room that Javert is astonished to realize is his own. There is no rush, no lunge from behind; merely the heat of Valjean’s eyes. He is like a rabbit which has already sighted the cat crouched in the nearby grasses, but refuses to hasten the end by attempting to bolt. Rather than bare himself further he stoops to remove his boots, fingers fumbling as he tugs them free. When he straightens, it is into the weight of Valjean’s hand between his shoulderblades, steadying him and claiming him. 

He stills beneath it. For a moment, he can only feel. It slides down his spine, tracing the knobs of bone through his shirt. It pools in his lower back, taking extra time to rub the tensed muscles there. And then lower still; until the hand cups his arse and Javert is gasping with a need he is not sure how to fulfill. 

Moments later Valjean is reaching around his waist to unfasten his trousers, leaning the rest of his weight against Javert’s back. Javert stares at the opposite wall, uncertain of what to do with his hands, uncertain whether there is something he is meant to be saying. His body screams at him to move, turn, take control; and yet he is paralyzed. The last of the fastenings undone, his trousers fall to the ground and leave the hot, wanting flesh beneath torturously exposed. Valjean’s hands sweep from thigh to hip, sliding under the final layer of decency his shirt provides though not bothering to touch him where he wants it most. 

Javert does not know what to do with this slow, ponderous waiting. It fills him up like a breath he cannot catch, like the thrill of the chase honed into agony. His fingers clench and unclench at his sides. He wants to turn around and seize Valjean and press against him with the urgency his blood demands, but that is not the roles they have fallen into tonight, and Javert, caught and subdued, can only wait to see what will be done with him. 

“Take this off, please.” Valjean tugs at the hem of his shirt, and then steps back to give Javert only enough room to remove it. A shiver moves through his body as he folds it with a care brought by nervousness, and then forces himself to casually toss it aside. Valjean does not press back to him to soften the cold air against his skin. Instead he traces every tremble of muscle, nothing more than the lightest brush of fingers against Javert’s oversensitive skin. And then, mercifully, the hand returns to his back--and pushes him towards the bed.

He is pressed down, so gently, even though the unbending part of him does not wish to go; but there is no choice, Valjean has him and his strength is irresistible, and Javert is pushed onto the mattress and remains there as Valjean undresses, only a faint tremble in his fingertips suggesting he is anything but collected. And then Valjean is bare; and then he is atop him, the weight of his body bearing down on Javert’s thighs, pinning him in place, and Javert allows it, Javert is still. 

“Good,” Valjean says, staring down at him; and that word drops through Javert like a burning coal through ice. 

Slowly, he is kissed. His hands are taken gently, held against the pillow near his head, and he tugs against that grip because he needs to feel the way Valjean’s hands tighten on his wrists, needs to feel beyond a certainty that there is no escape. The noise he makes startles them both into momentary inaction, Valjean staring down at him dazed and hungry before kissing him much harder than before. The hands stay tight on his wrists. Javert cannot even arch or squirm enough that his cock more than brushes Valjean’s stomach; he is whimpering like some pitiful wounded thing, and still Valjean does not stop. 

He would have thought it would be easy, to allow himself to be touched. But his heart is galloping in his chest and his palms are slick with sweat, and this has been the terror, all along, waiting beneath the surface of his unyielding control, this vulnerability which leaves him raw, this release of his iron hold grown stiff with years of rust, this final letting go, this slackening of a fist and softening of rigid muscles, so awful in how it lays him bear and yet for Valjean he would offer it, for Valjean he wants to give it all. 

It is only when neither of them can bear any more that Valjean releases him, his movements lost all their grace. He does not need it in order to bring their bodies together and stroke them as one, so slow it is dying, it must be. On their own accord Javert’s hands spring into action, leaping upon Valjean’s body like wild dogs, clutching at his shoulders, his arms, his back, and he is not holding this time but  _ held _ , taken, the weight of Valjean and the scent of him, the sweet musk of his sweat and the bitterness of his sex, the rough scrape of stubble and the soft heat of his mouth, pressing him and keeping him caught. It is in the vortex of these overwhelming sensations that Javert comes apart, harder and more completely than he ever has in his life. 

* * *

“Did you enjoy it?” Valjean asks him afterward, the entire weight and breadth of him stretched atop Javert’s body, chest-to-chest, propped up on one arm to stare fondly into Javert’s face. 

Javert arches up to kiss him, clumsy with satiation, and the hands which rise to settle on Valjean’s shoulders are gentle and untroubled. 

“Yes,” he says against Valjean’s smiling mouth. “Yes.” 


End file.
